


...Like Clockwork

by MikaMurha



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Will Graham, Biting, Bottom Will Graham, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Drunk Will Graham, First Kiss, First Time, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Possessive Hannibal, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Sassy Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-13 23:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaMurha/pseuds/MikaMurha
Summary: Post Cliff-Dive: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter survived the fall that should've killed them and now running away together is not a choice, but a necessity. Will begins to realize that meeting his "full potential" might not be such a bad thing when it comes with the benefit of Hannibal's constant presence.





	1. Change (In The House Of Flies)

**Author's Note:**

> Song inspo for this chapter is "Change (In The House of Flies)" by Deftones.

_I watched you change, into a fly_  
_I looked away, you’re on fire_  
_I watched a change in you,_  
_It’s like you never had wings_  
_& you feel so alive_  
_I have watched you change_

 _I took you home,_  
_Set you on the glass,_  
_I pulled off your wings,_  
_And I laughed._  
_I watched a change in you,_  
_It’s like you never had wings,_  
_Now you feel so alive,_  
_I have watched you change_

 

I want him to hold on to me. I tell him as much, not in words, but in the way I collapse into his arms, trusting and willing and exhausted and ready. For whatever comes, I am ready if he is there, and I know it now. It has been so long, fighting, chasing, denying what I have always known; that we are conjoined. Like soulmates, the red string of fate connects us. I lean into Hannibal’s body, and he is warm and strong and reassuring as his hands find my waist and pull me into him. This moment is clear to me, full of elation and purity and beauty. He pulls my head into the crook of his neck, against his pulse as he sweetly strokes my hair, slick with blood and sweat. He whispers to me in a language I do not know, and though I don’t understand the words, I feel his meaning. 

_This is how we go, isn’t it? Together, or not at all. There was never any other option for us. But you understand that. I didn’t have to tell you a word, and you didn’t resist me. Together…or not at all._

We are on the edge of the cliff already. I don’t look down. I don’t need to. I just need to feel him holding on to me.

_You will always come with me. You will always fall after me, won’t you? This is simply just where we both belong._

I curl my face into the curve of his neck, wet and warm with blood, and I grip him tightly as I step sideways off the cliff, my body falling on top of his.

_I won’t regret it._

The rippling darkness of the water rushes up to meet us.

_It’s just like we wanted._

Everything goes black.

 *** 

When I wake, squinting into the sunlight, it feels as though years have passed. Why am I awake? I shouldn’t be awake. I should be dead. Hannibal Lecter and I should be crumpled in the water, decomposing hands holding each other in a lovers’ embrace, safely out of reach at the bottom of the ocean where he cannot kill anyone and I cannot kill with him.

I don’t even want to open my eyes fully. The light is harsh, breathing is difficult, moving is an insurmountable task I do not wish to undertake. I ease an eyelid open against the harsh light of day to find that I am in a car, lying sprawled across the backseat. God, I can’t sit up. Maybe I am dead, and this is Hell. It feels uncomfortable enough, certainly. My need to know where I am briefly overpowers my body’s pain. I raise myself just to reach the window ledge, my fingers trembling from the effort. Just as I get high enough to see, my muscles give up and I slump back into the seat. I saw nothing recognizable through the tint of the windows, only a convenience store on the side of an interstate spattered with McDonald’s and Texaco stations. Great, that narrows it down to literally anywhere in America.

_What the hell. I can’t even jump off a cliff right. God, did you run? Did you leave me here in this unknown place and flee the country like you always do? Why, why am I alive? It was supposed to be together. I was not supposed to end up here, alone, busted and pointless and wanting in your absence._

I shut my eyes again in exhaustion. 

“Then let me die here.” I say, out loud, partially to satiate my own desire for melodrama. My voice comes out hoarse and painful.

“I’m afraid not, Will.” His clipped, smooth voice from the driver’s seat.

My eyes jolt open and my whole body lurches painfully in surprise. He not only has not left the country—he has not even left the vehicle. How did I become an FBI profiler with my current set of observational abilities? How did I even make it to adulthood without being run over by a semi truck or falling into a subway grate?

“You…” is all my feeble brain can shove out of my mouth. My heart feels as though it has swollen. He did not abandon me.

“Quite.” Is all he says. I hear the rustling of a plastic bag in his lap as he digs through it.

“You’re not dead either.” I say. Wow. That’s a stupid thing to say.

“Your powers of perception are truly breathtaking, Will.” His tone is amused, light and easy as if we were sharing a bottle of wine over dinner and as if he had not (I assume) dragged my almost-corpse from the ocean and taken me away after I tried to kill us both.

“Where are we?” I ask. 

“It is not important now.” His voice is so self-assured. So smug. Did I expect a real answer?

“Am I going to die?” I can’t stop slight annoyance from entering my tone.

“I do not think so, Will. If I intended to allow that, you would be dead already.” He shifts the plastic bag off of his lap and places it on the passenger seat beside him. I see a glimpse inside of it: rolls of gauze and alcohol and other miscellaneous medical supplies, and suddenly I become self-conscious when I realize that they are for me.

“Are you injured?” I ask. That sounds concerned. “You should be dead.” I add, for good measure.

“You would think so, Will. Perhaps if you had calculated our fall with a little thought, I would be. You would be, too.”

Oh. So it’s my fault. I close my eyes, thinking I’ve left Hannibal Lecter on the loose when I could’ve ended it all. It is my fault. And yet, I can’t quite bring myself to feel angry about it. I feel a little bitter that I couldn’t do it correctly, but…I’m not unhappy to see him. Shouldn’t I be? Something about his presence has always comforted me. Even when he gutted me, sawed me open, drugged me, tricked me, threatened me…how could I not be comforted by him? And oh, silly me, how naïve to think I could take down Hannibal Lecter. 

With my eyes closed, I begin to drift. How did it happen? I feel the car start around me, but it feels far away from me now, and unimportant. Did you save me? Did you pull me from the cold ocean to keep me all for yourself? I find myself falling asleep.

In my dreams, he is unchanged. He is himself, always, as if my mind couldn’t dare to imagine a version of him any better or more impressive than he already is. This dream is no different. The night is familiar (of course it is, we’ve just fallen from the cliff together). He’s in the water—we’re in the water—struggling to recover from the fall. He hasn’t let me go, though my body has let go of consciousness by now. I watch from above like a specter, and can see that he looks less peaceful now than he did when we fell. He is soaked through to the bone, hair black with wetness and slicked against his beautiful, angular face. His shirt clings to his body, and patches of red that had already bled through it leak out in blossoms like droplets of watercolor. He has an arm wrapped tightly around me, and he swims in long strokes, ducking the vicious waves, until he can grab hold of a rock and climb onto it. He pulls my unconscious body tenderly between his legs and bends over me, pressing an ear to my chest where my shirt has torn wide open. I watch him begin CPR, mechanical and unbothered until my body retches up the water from its lungs. His pale hand, white in the light of the moon, smoothes the wet hair gently from my forehead as he tilts his head back to look up at me.

_Is this what happened? You never even lost consciousness. I was so far off—of course, Hannibal Lecter is indestructible. It was fate and consequence that brought us to this moment, you would say._

I feel a small sense of longing that I do not understand bloom in my chest as I look down upon his face in the moonlight and he smiles proudly up at me, and I am suddenly glad that I have failed.

 *** 

When I wake again, I am in his arms. But it’s hardly the first time, is it? I can’t resist the temptation, and, like a child, I do not open my eyes and I allow him to carry me. I know he’s doing it because I most likely cannot physically walk, but it stirs something in me all the same. 

We’re finally running away together, aren’t we? Like we were meant to years ago, and instead you left me to bleed out on your fine mahogany floor. Should I be afraid?

I focus on the physical, because my mind and heart have begun to race and I don’t want him to notice. His arms are cradling me bridal-style (once again, I can’t help but think how it is not the first time) and I feel the unwavering strength in them. He really is indestructible. He just has to be. How many times have I tried to kill him? How many times has he been near death? I recall us walking through the streets in Italy, bloodied and limping and both of us beat to hell…somehow it’s hard not to think fondly of every memory I have with him. 

How can I possibly think fondly of that?

I let my eyes flicker open. I know he knows I’m awake anyway. He knows everything. He smiles down at me.

“Hello, Will.” My name rolls off his tongue sounding cherished and important, and his lips are curled and set in what seems to be a permanent semi-smile for me.

“Hello, Hannibal.” I sigh his name. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere we will not be found.” He says, simply. He readjusts his grip on me, sliding me closer into his chest and squeezing his palms against me where they rest. “You will need sufficient time to heal, and as it stands, the public is not particularly fond of me at the moment.”

I knot my fist around the collar of his shirt and drag my head up to look around and see that we are approaching what seems to be house in the middle of absolutely nowhere. I feel a chill. It reminds me of Garrett Jacob Hobbes’ hunting cabin. Hannibal’s arms tighten their grasp on me as we approach the threshold. 

“Can you stand?” He asks me. I shrug my shoulders (a motion followed by instant regret—everything hurts). Gently, so gently, he bends his knees, lowering his tall frame to place my feet on the concrete. My joints all scream with the weight of me, and my grasp on his shirt’s collar becomes white-knuckled and vicelike. My other hand reaches up instinctively to hold on to him, gripping his shoulder tightly as my eyes water with the pain of standing. I flash him a look (don’t let me go). 

I feel like a child learning to ride a bike, depending on him for support so I do not hurt myself. I can’t resist thinking about it, about him, about how I am practically happy to be in this situation. 

He walks me through the door and I cling to him helplessly, trying to steady myself against his frame with each aching, burning step. He leads me to a sofa in the middle of the living room. I have a subtle sheen of sweat over my face now, I am pathetically pale with pain and I let myself fall back against the rough fabric when he lays me down. With my limited range of vision, I assess our safe house. It is not his taste at all. Not even a little. For God’s sake, the walls are wood-paneled. The floor is worn wood with a cheap shag rug in front of the fireplace. There are furnishings, though most likely none manufactured any later than 1998. By his standards, it is absolutely hideous. I smile to myself.

He kneels down and begins to build a fire in the large brick fireplace, and I am captivated by him all over again. In all fairness, there’s not a whole lot to look at here other than him (it’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it). He lights a scrap of paper on fire with a lighter procured from seemingly nowhere and holds it gently to the wood inside the fireplace. I watch in spaced-out fascination as the orange flames begin to lick up onto the wood and evolve into a full fire, warm and crackling. It’s probably due to whatever head injuries I may have sustained, but I don’t want to pull my eyes from the mesmerizing flames. I gaze into the burning brightness and lose myself in it until I feel his hand on my face.

“I will have to look more closely at your injuries, Will.” He tells me. I nod slowly, sleepily. Hannibal affectionately strokes his thumb over my cheekbone. 

“More closely?” I ask, trying to ignore the static feeling where his touch was.

“Of course. I had to make sure nothing vital was damaged and get the blood off of you.” His tone is matter-of-fact and doctorly, and for a second it allows me not to realize that this means he changed my clothes, too. I am thankful that the fire is our only light, so he can’t see me blushing like a teenager.  
“Thank you.” I manage through my embarrassment. He rolls me gently so I am flat on my back and suddenly his deft hands are unbuttoning my shirt. The pain I’ve felt since waking was so…everywhere that I didn’t bother to try and feel out my individual injuries. I see now that my abdomen is covered in scrapes and scratches and huge inky bruises. I watch his eyes move over them and twinkle almost lovingly when they rest on the scar he gave me. Thick, jagged and low on my hips, it stands out between everything else. He looks fond of it. Sickly, I realize I am, too.

“You have fractures,” he tells me, digging his long fingers into various ribs, “here,” ouch “here,” ouch “and here.” Fuck. “There is not much to be done for them. They will heal on their own over time, so long as you do not engage in any overly strenuous activities.” He smiles, more to himself than to me. I want to be in on the joke. It can’t be as overtly sexual as I think it is, right?

“Everything…feels…terrible.” I manage to say. How eloquent. 

“I imagine so.” He runs an absent hand from my collarbone to my hip, not seeming to notice the involuntary shiver that ripples through me afterwards. “There is also a large gash on the inside of your left thigh which will need stitching. Forgive me, Will, but I did not have time to care for you properly before we arrived here.” I can feel my face flushing. The inside of my thigh. Naturally. Of course. “I simply taped it up, along with the wounds on your back and your face.” My mind is too preoccupied with the inevitable to listen to him list off the remainder of my injuries, and I lose track of his words for a moment. My face is hot and flushed now. “Will.” He says impatiently, waiting for a response. 

“Sorry…what?” I blink confusedly like an animal who’s just woken up. 

“I said I will need to remove your pants. Unless you’d like to do it yourself.” He says casually. It’s as if he could not possibly be any less interested in the idea of me nearly naked in front of him. Underneath my copious embarrassment, I feel mildly insulted.

“I can try.” I manage. I’m surprised I’m not stuttering and sweating at this point. My hands tremble slightly as my aching fingers fumble with the zipper of my jeans. Everything is going relatively okay until it comes time for me to lift my hips up and I collapse with a pained gasp. I struggle repeatedly, trying to force my sad muscles to hold me up, just for a second, and like the heathen that it is, my body betrays me again. I’m too weak. It’s actually pathetic. I shut my eyes dejectedly. I feel his hand, cool and smooth, on the small of my back, lifting me gently. 

“Do not be embarrassed, Will.” He says, reading my mind. “This is hardly the most intimate exchange we have ever had.” There’s a smile in his voice, and I can’t help but be reassured by it. He’s not wrong.

“Most of our intimate exchanges involved knives, Hannibal.” I say wryly, though I cannot stop myself from smiling. My eyes are closed and I feel exposed now. The air is cool on my bare legs. I steal a self-conscious glance down at my own body, thinking to myself, well, he’s probably already seen everything anyway. He seems to have dressed me in clothes I’ve never seen before, which includes a soft, thin pair of boxers which are now the only thing covering me.

“Yes,” he says, “but they were intimate all the same. I have opened you up, Will, as you have done to me. We have opened each other in more ways than one. Tell me, is it not intimate to dream of me? You dreamt of killing me for a long time.” He pauses. “Perhaps you still do.” The thought seems to entertain him, and a small smile crosses his face.

“I think it’s out of my system.” I say, amused.

Hannibal’s cool hand comes to rest on my thigh. I open my eyes involuntarily to watch him. Gently, he turns my leg so that my inner thigh is exposed and he runs his fingers up the gash there. Goosebumps prickle my skin and I close my eyes again so I don’t have to see his smug face. He leans away, keeping his palm pressed to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he fishes in one of the bags on the floor for surgical suture and a small, curved needle. His hand leaves my skin to prepare the needle, and to wet a cloth with alcohol to wipe along the gash in my thigh after he’s removed the tape. It stings like fire, but my adrenalin is already racing (admittedly not from the pain).

“Will, I am going to recommend that you think of something pleasant to distract yourself. This will not be comfortable, but I believe you will be able to handle it.” He is matter-of-fact again, surgical rather than sentimental. 

What a combination of feelings it is. His hands are so close, so close to me, touching such sensitive parts of me that I can’t help but tremble or jolt at times when his fingers brush against my skin. The needle pierces my skin with a hot pinch, and I screw my eyes shut against the pain. Think of something pleasant to distract myself. Before I can draw up my own visual, Hannibal appears, striking and self-satisfied that he can fill my dreams as well as my waking moments. Daydream Hannibal takes my face in his hands and runs his fingers over my jawline as he has done so many times in reality. My face has memory of those touches, delicate and meaningful strokes of my jaw and throat in our most dire moments. But in the daydream, there are no dire moments. There is only Hannibal and I, and black and silent peace around us. I allow myself to fall into his arms, as I did on the night we fell off the cliff. It feels like a privilege to be so close to him, just as it did then. Daydream Hannibal leans right back into me, and I can feel him breathing in the bend of my neck. I imagine I feel his teeth graze my skin, for just a moment…

And I become painfully aware of the fact that Real Hannibal is only about six inches from my crotch, and that I chose the wrong thing to fantasize about.


	2. Soft Touch/Raw Nerve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspo is "Soft Touch/Raw Nerve" by Depeche Mode!

_It’s seeming_  
_That you’re dreaming_  
_With my eyes_

_But why protest_  
_When your success_  
_Is my prize?_

_Oh, brother, give me a helping hand,_  
_Oh, brother, tell me you understand,_

_Have I hit a raw nerve?_  
_Have I got a soft touch?_

 

Oh God. I try to force Dream Hannibal out of my mind’s eye, but it doesn’t help much when Real Hannibal is situated precisely between my legs, eyes fixated only a few inches south of the situation. I feel the blood rushing to my groin, and my tense muscles aren’t helping to ease blood flow there. Real Hannibal is still threading the needle through the last of my wound, tugging the skin taut with his delicate fingers, seemingly too preoccupied to sense my growing panic at having The Most Inconvenient Erection. The gash in my thigh burns and throbs from the increased blood flow to the area. I try to will away the arousal and I seem to cycle through the stages of grief before fixating myself solidly on Bargaining. Please, God, if this erection goes away I will become a better person. I will repent. I will…

No. No such luck.

I shut my eyes again—at least maybe I won’t notice when he notices and I can feign ignorance—and like a ghost coming to haunt me, Dream Hannibal takes shape against my will. Why me, God? Dream Hannibal grabs me by my shirt collar and shoves me against the wall, leaning his tall body into mine, fitting into the curve of my hips with his own and leaning so our lips are barely an inch apart. His aggression is like a mirror of my urgency; but a warped, wicked carnival mirror that turns you upside down and gives you the exact opposite of yourself. My brain is out to get me. Dream Hannibal gives me a familiar, catlike smile and strokes my throat, leaning closer to my face. I can’t breathe. 

I open my eyes. Hannibal (Real Hannibal) is clipping the loose ends of the stitching with a miniscule pair of scissors and wiping the alcohol-soaked cloth along the inside of my thigh. My erection, if possible, is worse, throbbing and irritating, pulsing blood into the raw stitching of my wound. I want to shrink myself into the sofa.

“Do not be self-conscious, Will.” Hannibal says with a slight smile, tone as smooth and cool as ever. It seems as though he is avoiding looking directly at my erection out of sheer politeness. I have to shoo away an image of the alternative—an alternate dimension in which Hannibal does not try to be polite, and instead, reacts like a normal person and laughs. I feel as though my face might melt off my skull for the heat in my cheeks. “Arousal and pain are closely linked.” He says matter-of-factly. “Or perhaps whatever you envisioned to take your mind off of the pain worked too well.” He smiles knowingly.

_Better than you know._

Heat radiates from me, flushed and awkward despite the chill in the air, and Hannibal politely ignores it while he pulls out a fresh needle and—surprisingly—a bottle of whiskey. 

“I will need to stitch that gash on your face,” he tells me, “and this will be more painful, I imagine. I brought this in lieu of an anesthetic.” His voice is soft and soothing and so beautifully accented, I imagine he could tell me that he has to peel off my face and I would simply nod along. It occurs to me that I don’t know how bad it is—how bad I look. For the first time in a while, I worry about my appearance. As always, Hannibal reads my mind.

“Not to worry, Will, it is not bad enough to disfigure your beautiful face.” He says. The heat rises back into my cheeks again. I chuckle nervously as Hannibal begins to wipe the cloth against my cheek. It burns like fire, seeping into my skin and I fumble without turning my head to find the bottle of whiskey that Hannibal set on the floor beside me. I hastily gulp down what is most likely far too much of it, barely tasting anything but the fire inside my cheek. When I open my eyes again, Hannibal is watching me while he threads the needle, an expression something like amusement on his face.

He leans in close to me and peels the tape back from the stab wound on my face, and in a morbid rush of feeling, I can sense the air move through the gaping hole. I am momentarily disgusted. Hannibal starts delicately weaving the needle into my flesh, and he’s right, it does hurt more. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about how it all came to be as the warm buzz of the alcohol begins to dull the sharp pain in my cheek. Our fight with Dolarhyde was the turning point, the real one. Hannibal did not stab him because he felt that the Red Dragon was a danger to the world, or because he was rude (like he usually would). I saw the look on his face. He stabbed Francis Dolarhyde because Francis Dolarhyde stabbed me. I feel oddly affectionate. Maybe it’s the alcohol. 

“Why do you say I’m beautiful?” I ask, staring intensely at his face while he focuses on sewing my gruesome cheek. He smiles slightly.

“I appreciate beauty in all things. This, of course, is extended to you as well. You are an especially beautiful man.” He says. I smile in turn, feeling warm and now only semi-bothered by the needle weaving through my skin. My aversion to eye contact seems to have been affected by the alcohol, and I find myself staring into Hannibal’s eyes in a way that probably looks somewhat deranged. He’s beautiful, too. Not that it’s the first time I’ve noticed. I’ve noticed again and again, every moment of every day in which I saw him (and most days in which I didn’t, because it was rare that his face was not in the back of my mind somewhere). His face is so striking. I reach out to graze his cheekbone with a feather-light touch and squint at him in intoxicated fascination. His beauty is like the beauty of a tiger; something better to appreciate from behind bulletproof glass.

His eyes are still fixed on my cheek, and I realize that I can no longer feel outside air flowing through it. We must be near the end. I hope vainly that I won’t end up with an ugly scar. But then again, what difference is one more? 

Hannibal ties and clips the suture, wiping my cheek with the cloth again and running the pad of his thumb over it approvingly. He eyes me for a fraction of a moment with a look I do not understand. I feel scrutinized, but I don’t dare say anything. The moment passes, and he turns to pull a blanket from beneath an end table.

“I do not think you should try to move any more tonight,” Hannibal says, turning on a weak lamp behind the sofa and unfolding the knit blanket to gently drape it over me. My heart has a momentary flutter in its pace as he sits beside me on the sofa to pull the blanket around my shoulders.

“Why are you caring for me?” I ask, my voice quiet and tense. I surprise myself with it. Who am I to question a good thing?

“Because I do not want you to die, Will.” He smiles. “We are finally on the same page. We acted as one.” He gently traces a finger over my face, from brow bone to chin. “Finally, I have someone who is worth all of my effort and dedication. I do not intend to let anything happen to you.”

I am taken aback. Whatever response I’d expected from that…it wasn’t what he gave me. The sincerity is almost frightening. I haven’t come to expect it from him. In fact, I don’t think I’ve come to expect anything from him. My one consistent expectation for Hannibal Lecter is that he will always defy expectations (this still holds true, apparently). 

“This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? For...a long time.” I pause, the words sticking in my throat. I should have run away with him when I had the chance so many years ago. What was I clinging to?

“It is. I will not let our second life be taken as the first was.” His tone is soft, but there is a dark edge within the words and the way I read them: _if anyone tries to ruin this, I will kill them._ I realize with mild surprise that I would not stop him. “I am proud of you, Will. You have always been beautiful, unrealized potential. I am very fortunate to have witnessed and aided your evolution. I will not allow anyone to undo that good work.” His fingertips lightly brush over my collarbone and my eyes flutter closed. I drag my arm from beneath the blanket to catch his hand in mine.

“Stay with me.” I whisper.

“Of course.” He says, a soft smile in place.

Hannibal fits himself more comfortably into the small space left between the arm of the sofa and my head lying on the pillow. In the peace and semi-quiet of the crackling fire and setting sun, he pulls a notepad and pencil out of one of his bags and begins to draw silently. My mind turns over again and again. For the first time since waking, I think of my wife and her son. My _wife?_ It’s a very selfish thought, but I can’t help feel that she’s better off as a widow. It feels like a cheap way out I’m choosing for myself, but in truth…isn’t it better to let her believe that I died still a good man? Better for Walter to think that I’m not another father who abandoned him? I feel a pang of guilt at that, but it is far away from me now, as if it were another lifetime. Maybe it was.

My instinct led me here, selfishly, to this sofa in the house in the woods in the middle of nowhere, in the arms of the man who tried to kill me so many times. It’s hardly like I ran from the altar to another lover…yet it feels that way.

My eyes are closed, thinking on the trail of those I’ve left behind me, all troubled and weeping over the idea of a dead Will Graham who deserved their love. Molly, Walter, Jack, Alana, Price and Zeller…I hope they can mourn for him without ever knowing the truth. They deserve the good grace of a fond memory (as fond as a memory of someone like me can be).

Hannibal’s fingers gently trace over my knitted brows, relaxing the muscles there. As I always do, I go still at his touch. He’s touched me so many times, in so many ways, and now it feels new again. I think of all the ways he’s touched me, opened my skull, opened my abdomen, plucked bullets from my body, steadied me through seizures, caressed my face, held me as we leapt from the cliff. He was nearly the only touch I felt in those years (or perhaps just the only touch that mattered). I feel my skin prickle at it again, tingling excitedly where he lingered.

“You seem troubled, Will.” He says softly, smiling down at me as he folds his notebook closed. 

“I’m trying to determine…how this will redefine our relationship.” I say stiltedly. “How many different phases did we pass through on our way to where we are now? Therapist and patient, friends, enemies, two people trying again and again to kill each other. What now?” I’m surprised that I managed to ask. The thought had been pressing against my skull, banging on the walls all day as if to say, ‘let me out!’. I didn’t think I would have the courage to express it. I look up expectantly at Hannibal.

“Nothing is different.” He says simply. “We have always been beyond definition, I believe. We are all of those things and more.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Partners.” He says. I feel myself choke a little. 

Partners? In crime? In the science lab? At our law firm? Or…well. I swallow. 

“Partners.” I agree, softly.

 ***

I wake the next morning to the smell of coffee. Hannibal has left a small bottle of painkillers on the table beside me. I gratefully take one, dry swallowing it with a grimace. Time for the ultimate test. I drag myself into a sitting position, managing to place my bare feet on the floor and force myself to stand. It hurts—a lot. But I’m doing it, so today’s Will Graham is several steps ahead of yesterday’s Will Graham. Slowly and shakily, I drag my zombified, aching body through the living room into what I think might be the kitchen.

I am pleasantly rewarded for my perseverance; it is indeed the kitchen. There’s a worn wooden breakfast nook on one end, linoleum flooring and hideous, dated wallpaper. I smile again at the atrocity of this place in juxtaposition to Hannibal’s design preferences. He is at the stove, cooking something I cannot see, and looks up at me with a pleased smile. It is disconcerting to see him out of a suit—he is wearing a soft-looking woven sort of shirt and flannel pajama pants. It’s so unfamiliar that he almost looks like a doppelganger of himself; not quite right, but definitely similar.

“I see you are alive.” He says. “That is half the battle. Would you like some coffee, Will?” 

My weak brain imagines Hannibal as some sort of 50’s housewife in pearls, trying to do everything for her husband. Am I his husband? No, I’m fairly certain everyone would say I’m the wife. I nod weakly, trying to brush off the intrusive thoughts. It’s too early for this. I stumble myself over to the breakfast nook to sit in front of a laptop placed there. 

“May I?” I ask, though I am already investigating the webpage he has up.

“I’d hoped you would. I thought you might like to read the latest Freddie Lounds piece.” He says with amusement. “There is a particular sense of grandeur to this one.” Hannibal hands me a cup of coffee and returns to his skillet. I clutch it with both hands like a shock patient, preparing myself for the latest from Freddie.

_**MURDER HUSBANDS TAKE LOVERS’ LEAP?** _

I want to roll my eyes. I don’t know that I can bring myself to read the entire thing, so I scan it for bolded excerpts and photos. There are, of course, the typical paparazzi-style photos of Hannibal and I at crime scenes, just-the-right-timing photos in which he has a hand on me or our eyes have met. It’s somewhat incriminating, but nothing new for Freddie.

_**Known killers Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter have not been seen since their brutal encounter with Francis Dolarhyde, or, as we know him, the Tooth Fairy.** _

_**The evidence shows that Graham and Lecter worked together to fight the Tooth Fairy, and their sudden and simultaneous disappearances lead this writer to believe that, if they’re alive, they are finally working completely in unison.. Whether they fell to their deaths in each other’s arms or fled the scene to run away together, it seems that Baltimore’s most notorious couple are shacked up for good.**_

I really do roll my eyes at that.

“What do you think?” I ask Hannibal. “Are we dead, or are we going to begin a long string of evil murders?” 

“I think that is a matter of opinion.” He says smugly, distributing whatever he’s been cooking onto tacky floral plates pulled from an equally tacky wooden cabinet. He walks over to me, holding out a plate, which I gratefully accept, realizing that I am starving. Whatever instinct usually deters me from eating his food is gone. I notice with a hint of nostalgia, that he’s made a sort of breakfast scramble identical to the first time he cooked me something. I look up at him. It’s not like Hannibal ever does anything by coincidence. It seems a bit grandiose, but I can feel immediately his meaning. 

I look across the table as he sits down from me. There really is and always has been a part of me that wanted nothing more than this…nothing more than to just be where he is. I want to stretch my hand across the table and touch him, feel that he is real. But instead, I simply smile and stab a fork into the same breakfast he served me years ago at my shabby table in the dim light of the morning. 

It’s a new beginning.


	3. Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspo is "Killer" by the Hoosiers!

_I hate my work, but I’m in control_  
_I’m fearless now, but it cost my soul_  
_Save yourselves, the moon is full,_  
_Under its power, gravitational pull_

_Blood red lips, they shake like leaves,_  
_You’re flesh and blood, but what’s underneath?_

_Don’t turn out the lights,_  
_Kiss yourself goodnight, ‘cause there’s a killer_  
_And he’s coming after you_

 

Two weeks pass without incident. I spend both of them consumed nonstop by thoughts of past conversations and thoughts of him. It’s almost like I just don’t know how to be with Hannibal without the threat of death or desperation. The mundane motions of living together like this are wearing on me, making me anxious, as if my brain is saying ‘Hey, things are getting too good! It’s a trick!’. Hannibal checks on my injuries daily, cooks for us (I do not ask where he gets the food). It’s almost a comfortable situation; it’s just me, Hannibal, and the enormous elephant in the room, and we coexist almost peacefully.

Repeatedly, my mind drags itself back to a conversation I had with Bedelia Du’Maurier.

_’Does Hannibal Lecter love me’? I had asked her._

_’Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes. But do you ache for him?’ She asked in return._

I couldn’t answer her at the time. I’m not sure I could answer her now. She was so unblinking, unmoved, unsurprised. It was like she always knew far too much. I sit at the breakfast nook in the warm afternoon sunlight, fidgeting with a pencil on the table and tapping my feet against the linoleum. Hannibal is out—somewhere—and it makes me nervous. He still won’t tell me where we are (‘it is not our final destination, Will’.) and wouldn’t have my protests not to leave. My strong argument that someone might recognize him and call the FBI to come shoot him did not seem to sway him at all, and though our relationship has changed, I can’t help but still feel a little afraid of him. I gave up when I looked in his eyes and saw that there was no possibility of concession. It was an hour ago, and now I sit drumming my fingers against the wooden table with a mix of irritation and anxiety hovering over me like a dark cloud.

It’s not like I can tell him that I’m worried for his safety. I don’t need to, I mean, he knows. He would only be offended that I don’t think he can handle himself. I rub my eyes frustratedly. My wounds are finally easing away, at least. I am still covered in a ludicrous amount of purple and yellow bruises. My chest, my back, my waist and legs still all appear beaten to hell. The gashes on my thigh and face, as well as the smaller scrapes on my back have all bruised deep purple around the stitches Hannibal gave me, but they are healing. I can walk on my own without wishing I were dead, and the fractures seem to be setting enough for me to breathe without pain. I have freedom of agency now; but what does it really get me? I can’t leave the house—I don’t even know where anything is, if I tried to leave I’d get lost and likely freeze to death in the woods. 

I get up and begin to pace absently around the house. After I finally regained the ability to walk on my own, I took mild pleasure in exploring our new hideaway. It was larger than it seemed: two stories, five rooms, two bathrooms, and a basement. It’s all equally ugly; the walls plastered with floral wallpapers or rigid wood paneling, the floor either a worn, dull wood or a very dated orangeish carpet. Every appliance is a particular 1990’s shade of white, and all of the furniture looks vaguely as if someone died on it (someone might have). I don’t mind. It feels like a home you would see in someone’s childhood photos. Though there are five bedrooms, I only seem to feel comfortable sleeping on the sofa and only when Hannibal is nearby. Something about lying alone in an unfamiliar bed in the dark makes me acutely aware of how much I don’t know where to go from here. 

I pause, briefly, in the bedroom Hannibal has claimed. It is upstairs, with a small balcony that I can imagine he likes to read on in the mornings when I am asleep. The room smells like him, sharp and clean and pleasant. I feel like I’m being intrusive, but I can’t help it. It’s probably not even his house, it can’t be (there’s no chance he would allow it to have such dated style if it were). It probably belonged to someone he killed. I try to nudge that disconcerting thought to the side. 

Hannibal has preoccupied himself with his books and drawings, much like he did when he was incarcerated. I pause my pacing when I come across a pile of sketches on an end table. Gently shifting them to look at each one, I am taken aback by their beauty (but what isn’t he good at?). One is of Alana and Margot, their side profiles drawn with great care, facing each other. It’s softly rendered, fuzzy and almost sweet. Another is a silhouette in a snowscape who I can recognize from his clothes as Jack Crawford. It’s almost calming. Francis Dolarhyde stares at me from the next page, his face as psychotic as the night we killed him, a truly horrifying dragon-creature latched to his back, gripping his wrists like a macabre puppeteer. I wince a little at the accuracy of it and hide it beneath the others. My own face is looking at me now—head tilted back, throat exposed, a little thinner than I used to be (but it’s probably accurate)—the slash on my cheek is dripping blood down my jawline. I swallow. It’s much more developed than the others. The amount of detail in my face is unbelievable, as if he’d spent hours gazing upon it so he wouldn’t forget anything. I take it with me as I ease myself to lie down on the bed. How does he know my face so well? All these years, it’s like he’s been accumulating details imperceptibly, just waiting until he can weave a portrait of me that is perfect. I can’t be that interesting, surely…I begin to lose track of time, and I drift off to sleep while holding it.

In my dream, Hannibal and I stand over Francis Dolarhyde. Dolarhyde lies flatly on his back, blood seeping from his wounds and blossoming into black puddles around our feet, soaking through my shoes. I look up at Hannibal to find that he is looking at me already, something like pride glowing in his eyes. I can’t help but to smile faintly back at him—he is so striking in the moonlight. I reach out to him, moving to walk towards him and stumbling over the body between us. He catches me easily, lithe hands securing my elbows before he nods meaningfully toward Francis. I follow his gaze to find that it isn’t Francis at all—it’s Garrett Jacob Hobbs, pale and stiff as if he were fresh from the embalming table. I swallow painfully, digging my fingers into Hannibal’s biceps and stepping over the body without taking my eyes off of it. Hannibal pulls me to him, turning me so that my back is to his chest. I can feel his steady heartbeat against my back, his firm chest and stomach rising and falling in sync with my breathing. He leans his head in to whisper in my ear.

“This is all I wanted for you, Will.” He says in a voice so low it is nearly a purr. He puts a knife in my hand and I watch in horror as Garrett Jacob Hobbs rises to a sitting position. His wretched body twitches and crawls to its knees, coughing violently and grasping frantically for my feet. Hannibal’s firm hands on my shoulders push me forward, and in a panic, I begin to stab frantically at the undead nightmare in front of me.

The knife plunges into Garret Jacob Hobbs’ now-decomposing face, and his skin begins to slip from the skull. Embalming fluid gushes from the stab wound, drenching me in a smell that is both rotten and chemical. I feel like I’m going to vomit. I stab him again and again, first the face, then the throat, then the chest until he goes still enough for me to scramble backwards away from him on the slippery stone. My breathing is frantic, my heart even more so. I grasp at the leg of Hannibal’s pants like a frightened child, trembling vigorously. He crouches beside me, smoothing my hair back from my face and gently smoothing his thumb over my cheek before holding my arms to help me stand. He looks down at me fondly.

“Beautiful.” He says, softly. He tilts my chin back with one hand, leaning close enough just to brush his lips against mine. My heart flutters again, and I want to touch him. I lean into his body as he firmly presses his lips against mine, and the taste of him is like sweet red wine. His tongue grazes my bottom lip and I feel my knees go weak. The knife falls to the ground and my hands grasp at his shirt, blood-soaked and soft. I can’t get sufficiently close to him and suddenly it’s as if I’m grasping at smoke and he’s gone. My hands reach out for nothing in the absolute darkness and suddenly I feel utterly alone.

 

I wake up drenched in sweat, shaking, my heart racing a million miles a minute. I may have screamed, or gasped his name into the darkness. I don’t know. My hands are clenching the bedcover in fierce fists, and it takes a full minute to decipher Hannibal’s tall frame standing in the doorway in the dark of the setting sun. He strolls in casually, as if I didn’t wake up in terror, and picks up his drawing of me from the floor where it must have fallen. He lays it gently back on the desk and stares at me with interest, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed where I am. He seems slightly…different. Not the self he has been for the last two weeks. He watches me with more focus than usual, reaching up to touch my face as he now often does.

It’s like our closeness has made him more comfortable with whatever impulses he has regarding me. He touches me, pets my hair or my face frequently. His touch is not foreign anymore, but comforting. It doesn’t jolt me like it once did, but I find myself leaning into him like a cat more often than not. I close my eyes and let my face tilt into his palm, trying to steady my breathing and find peace in the warmth of his palm. What a strange way for things to be, isn’t it? 

“I’m glad you’re back.” I whisper. It’s almost not loud enough for him to hear it, but I know he does.

He stands up and holds out a hand to me.

“There is something I think you will want to see.” He says. His voice is different. It has strayed from the soft, often lightly joking tone I’ve adapted to in the last weeks. There is a curt sense of anger in it, and though it’s not directed at me, it reminds me what exactly I’ve gotten into—who exactly he is. I reach out and allow him to help me up. Though I can walk on my own now (and would usually protest the coddling) I still feel shaken from my dream and take the opportunity to lean into him. His hand is on the small of my back, and I can feel him twitch his fingertips against my spine with irritation. The smell of him is comforting—ink and wood smoke and crisp linens. He leads me downstairs into the kitchen where he flicks on the ugly overhead light and gestures for me to sit in front of the computer. 

I’m almost afraid to look. Whatever it was, it made him angry—genuinely angry. I pick up my glasses from the table where I typically leave them now (it’s the only place I really need them) and put them on, squinting at the TattleCrime homepage, all block letters and attention grabbing. There’s a featured article taking up most of it.

**_EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT RED DRAGON_ **

I nearly choke. Excuse me? 

**_Following a near-death encounter with the infamous pair Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, we finally speak with The Great Red Dragon, Francis Dolarhyde._**

I…he…survived? How? How the fuck did he survive? He bled out. He must have. I was covered in his blood, liters of it, it felt like, it stained the flagstone and soaked us all. But then again…he…I scroll down and clench my fists subconsciously. The interview is written in a bold transcript, accompanied by a photo of Hannibal’s house on the cliff.

**_FL: So, Mr. Dolarhyde, I’m told you have a message you’d like to get out in the world now that you’ve been caught._**

**_FD: That’s right._**

**_FL: What might that be?_**

**_FD: I want Will Graham to know that the Dragon is coming for him._**

**_FL: Why just Will Graham? Why not Hannibal Lecter as well?_**

**_FD: I will kill Will Graham. I will let the dragon have him, and it will be slow and torturous. I will cut out his tongue. I will cut off his fingers one by one. I will dig his heart out of his chest and I will send them all to Hannibal Lecter. I want him to suffer._**

**_FL: You believe that watching Will Graham suffer will make Dr. Lecter suffer as well?_**

**_FD: Yes. And the Dragon will make sure that every last moment of Mr. Graham’s life is unbearable._**

I look up hesitantly at Hannibal. Though I am shaken that he survived us in the first place, Dolarhyde’s remarks don’t bother me too much. He is locked up, after all. We beat him once, surely we could do it again. Hannibal, on the other hand, stares at the laptop from what seems to be a great mental distance. His fists are clenched tightly, knuckles white. It’s more frightening than Dolarhyde’s interview by far. I shut the laptop and turn to him. I clear my throat, but don’t honestly know what to say. I sit there stupidly, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish while I look for the words to comfort him. Is that even what this is? 

“He can’t get to us…you know that.” I offer eventually. Hannibal’s eyes flick to me as if he just noticed I was in the room. His jaw clenches slightly and he reaches out to offer a hand again. I take it, and he pulls me abruptly to my feet. I wince slightly, and he puts his hands on the sides of my face, staring intensely into my eyes. I swallow, not wanting to meet his gaze. I know what I said was not incredibly helpful; wherever Hannibal is now, it’s not anywhere good. And he’s not foolish enough to think that the five doors between Dolarhyde and the outside world are enough to stop him. 

“He will get to you, Will.” He says seriously. My eyebrows knit together in confusion, and fear begins to creep in. “I want him to.” My blood runs cold and my palms begin to sweat. I start to pull away from Hannibal and he relaxes his grip on my face to gently pet my hair. “I want him to find you. And I want to peel every inch of skin off of his body.” His voice is low and solemn and I remember instantly how absolutely terrifying he is. The dark stag of my nightmares flashes in my mind as I look into his eyes. Hannibal runs a soothing hand over my forehead.

“I will torture him for what he has said about you. I will skin him. I will break his bones one at a time. I will cook him while he still breathes and force feed him the most unfortunate pieces of himself.” He pauses, smiling viciously down at me. “And we will kill him together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little short! The next one will be longer. I need to get a rhythm down with posting regularly--I'll try to do a weekly update. Thanks for reading, guys! Your encouragement is heartwarming as fuck!
> 
> MikaMurha


	4. Under My Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspo is "Under My Skin" by Jukebox the Ghost! Also lowkey this is the goofiest chapter of anything I've ever written. Just like 5min of happiness before everything goes to shit am I right :-)

_I can fit two people under my skin_   
_I can fit two people under my skin_   
_And I will prove it, if you will listen_   
_You crawled up in there, you joined me within_

_I can feel your heart beating under my skin,_   
_And the beating of your heart is making me bleed from within_   
_And if we cut open your heart, pour it in a cup_   
_Do you think it’d be enough? Do you think it’d be enough?_

I fall asleep thinking of his words. I wake up thinking of them. He acts like it wasn’t anything new, what he’d said, and in a way I guess it isn’t, but…I can’t quite find peace with it. I already killed Francis Dolarhyde once. I didn’t think I’d be required to do it twice. It has me torn with myself; I want him dead and nothing in my whole life has ever felt as _right_ as killing him did. Killing him with Hannibal. I stare at the ceiling in the pale blue light of the early morning, seeing shapes in the popcorn texture and trying not to think what I am obviously already thinking (it’ll feel even better the second time). 

Hannibal is in the chair by the fireplace, still and silent. He could be sleeping, or he could have simply fucked off to the inner confines of his mind. Maybe he’s in some pretentious church in Rome. Maybe he’s reliving a murder. I sigh heavily, staring at him. I could say no. I could say ‘Hey, sorry, Hannibal, I’m out of the murder game. I just want to retire with some dogs and go fish all day long. Thanks for all the help with the many homicides and stabbings and for when we almost killed that guy together, but I’m calling it quits’. But…I know I won’t. Something about it…something about the idea of not being by his side anymore is frightening to me. It’s as if that night on the cliff wove us together with finality. We were always conjoined, and now we aren’t even two different people anymore. I try, briefly, to imagine going back to a normal life, with no Hannibal, no violence, no chase or thrill or satisfaction of any kind. I feel vaguely nauseated.

I stare at him with a look that is probably too intense for 6am. I don’t even know what I feel for him anymore. Grateful…afraid…entranced. Hasn’t that always been the case? What a loop to be stuck in. The teacup is stuck in a loop, always hovering one inch before the ground, always inevitably waiting to be shattered and recollect. 

Something shifted between us. What was a constant game of cat and mouse is a stalemate and _I don’t know what’s missing._ Hannibal’s hand is hanging over the arm of the chair, and before I can ask myself ‘what the fuck?’, I’ve reached out to touch it. A compulsion, I guess, spurred on by the thought of leaving him. How unhealthy is that? My fingertips curl between his slender fingers, gently grasping at him before I let my hand drop. He’s in my dreams. He’s in my dreams every night. If my brain is trying to tell me something, it’s not being discreet. And I know—I _know_ what it means. I know that I want him. But it feels like delving into that, or God forbid, actually acting on it would shatter whatever tiny piece of me is left that could live a normal life (hasn’t that ship sailed?).   
I think of Molly, and Walter, of my life with them. It was…nice. It was always nice. But it wasn’t anything else. It didn’t make my pulse race; it didn’t fill me with desperation or emotion. I didn’t feel like I would die if I lost them. Was that wrong? How many years of my life has he consumed my thoughts, lurked in the recesses of my mind just waiting for me to realize I needed him? God, was he prepared to wait. I look at him again. I think he’s asleep. A ray of morning light is edging down the wall onto his face. He’s going to wake up when it reaches his eyes, I’m sure. He’s too perceptive to be a heavy sleeper. I don’t want him to wake. He looks oddly peaceful.

Again, I’m reminded of a wild animal. He’s like a tiger, breathtaking and powerful, but not meant to be kept. Am I a complete idiot? Am I trying to domesticate a tiger? Is he just going to maul me in my sleep? People would laugh and say, ‘well, what’d he expect?’. They’ll know I had it coming. In my last moments, I think I’d know I had it coming. I think I’d let it happen. I’d sacrifice happiness with someone normal for a 50/50 shot at being murdered in my sleep with Hannibal. The ray of light slides onto his face, illuminating him in soft morning gold. He opens his eyes as he always does, not with the sleepy blink of a normal person, but purposeful and awake (as if he was never really sleeping to begin with). It freaked me out at first. Now it just seems like one of those things. 

I don’t try to hide the fact that I’ve been staring at him. He’s done it to me almost every day this week. I just watch as he stretches his arms and checks his watch leisurely. 

“Good morning.” I say from my place on the sofa, nestled beneath a knit blanket. Hannibal looks over in my direction and a faint warmth dawns on his face.

“Good morning, Will.” He says. “Did you sleep well?” 

I chew the inside of my cheek. _Actually, yes. I could say, Hey, I dreamt of your old house, and we were together in your bed and you were tying me to the bedframe! It was great, and when I woke up, I had a very painful erection. Thanks for asking!_

“I slept okay.” I say instead. I rub the back of my head absently and pull up my knees to rest my chin on them. “You?”

“Several hours more than usual. And it is always pleasant to wake to your face.” He says with a charming smile. I feel heat in my face and look down to pick at a thread on the blanket. “I will have to go get some things today.” He says with a tone that says I can’t talk him out of it. I feel the slight rise of anxiety in my stomach.

“I thought you just got stuff?” I ask. I sound needy. I unravel a piece of the blanket. 

“In light of yesterday’s discovery, there are other things I will be needing.” He says innocently.

I look up sharply as I feel the anxiety rise a little higher. 

“What do you mean?” I ask. I already know what he means. I don’t much want to hear about it.

“I will need proper equipment for what I intend to do to Dolarhyde.” He says. “And if he takes too long, which he will, I will need to be able to find him.” Hannibal gives me a smile and I shut my eyes and let my head fall back against the sofa. I don’t even know what to say to him. It’s not like I can really object—he wouldn’t listen. It might even make him angry. I reach up to run my hands over my face and sigh heavily into them. I feel Hannibal’s weight press down on the sofa beside me and hold still, hands still covering my face. I feel like my attachment to him has morphed into a pathetic sort of neediness.

Hannibal’s strong hands snake around me to tip me against him, and I drop my hands to steady myself. I glower childishly at him.

“I will be quite safe.” He says. “This is necessary.” He twists his fingers through the curls of my hair and smiles at me. I swallow and bow my head in slight exasperation. 

“Is it?” I ask tiredly.

“Of course. I cannot let threats against you stand, Will.” Hannibal says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Isn’t that…my problem? I mean, the gesture is—very nice—but you don’t have to defend my honor, Hannibal.” I choke out with a strangled sort of laugh. 

“Perhaps you don’t need me to,” he says with a diplomatic shrug, “but I would be remiss to pass up the opportunity all the same.” He tugs playfully at a strand of my hair, curling his hand around my jaw. My cheeks burn and I pick up the frayed blanket edge again. “He knew what he was doing when he said those things.”

“But doesn’t that make it a worse idea?” I blurt out. “He’s baiting you, Hannibal!” I shove aside the blanket and stand up on wobbly legs. I immediately miss the warmth and affection of sitting at Hannibal’s side, but the anxiety has risen to my throat and made me restless. I begin to pace. In my mind I look frustrated and mature. In reality, I probably look like a newborn foal trying to stomp around on my weak legs.

“He is.” Hannibal says certainly. “I am sure. But he no longer has the element of surprise. He cannot overpower me without it.” He shrugs.

“He’s hoping that he made you angry, that he made you vengeful, that your _emotions_ will get the best of you! And he’s going to get what he wants if you just go launch yourself full tilt at him without a plan because he was rude to us!” I’m getting snappish. It just seems so unlike Hannibal to act on anger alone. He stands up, finally irritated with my tone, and though we’re not that far apart in height, he seems to tower over me. He catches my wrist in one of his hands and pulls me closer to him. I freeze, clenching and unclenching my jaw nervously. He’s so close…I can’t help but glance up and down over his face. He’s angry with me, but it’s less like rage and closer to exasperation. His other hand creeps up to gently touch my jaw. I’m sure he can feel my pulse just beneath it, steadily picking up pace.

“I am not _without a plan,_ Will.” He says testily. “I expect you to be with me on this.” His tone is hardened and stern, and he drops my hand after he says it. That’s more upsetting than the scolding. He turns to walk away from me, and in a brief moment of boldness, I reach out and grab him by his sleeve. It’s the only way I can appeal to him, I think. I pull him close and fall into his chest, tucking my head into his shoulder and leaning my weight into him. Hesitantly, he puts one hand on my back and the other on my hip. He seems unsure for once.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Hannibal.” I say, soft and honest. “It seems reckless…and if you were gone…” I pause. “I don’t know what I would do.” The truth of it is frightening. His hand on my back runs fingers over my spine. 

“Things do not happen to me.” He says simply. _You happen,_ I think. It’s almost implied. I sigh against his shoulder and I want to touch him. My hand flutters over his waist and my fingertips brush his lower back through his shirt. I make myself pull away, melancholy and too tired to keep trying. My eyes flicker over his face again, timidly. He looks…shaken, almost. Not quite…but almost. I give him a tired, pressed smile. 

“Just be safe.” I say softly.

 

Afternoon fades into evening, and Hannibal takes his goddamn time. I wander the whole house several times, peeking through books and papers he’s left lying around. I try, briefly, to read a book he’s been reading. Three pages in, I find that I am losing the will to live and I wonder how someone so interesting can immerse himself in such boring things. (He finds his excitement elsewhere?) I wander into the bathroom to seriously look at myself in the mirror for the first time in weeks. I look paler than I did the last time I really saw myself. The slice on my cheek is not faded to a scar yet; it is still the angry red and purple of healing. I resist the urge to scratch at it. My eyes are tired, my hair is curly and disorganized. I’ve stopped paying much attention to it since I’ve been here—I guess it hasn’t been my top priority. I run warm water from the old faucet onto my hands and run them through my hair in an attempt to tame down the curls. The stubble on my jaw is darker and longer, closer to an actual beard now. I run a hand over it, wincing at the slight tug. I look like a wreck. It’s not my worst, but it sure isn’t my best. 

I miss my clothes. All of my flannels and old t-shirts are lost to the past; all I have here are some clothes Hannibal brought for me (far too fancy) and some t-shirts and pajama pants I convinced him to get me from some department store (somehow, not fancy enough?). I miss my clothes more than I though I would. There’s something comforting about a fabric worn thin and soft by years of use. The starchy cotton of freshly bought t-shirts just reminds me that my old life is out of reach. The t-shirt I’m wearing begins to itch as I think about it and I find myself pulling it off over my head to throw it aside. I stop as I catch sight of myself in the mirror again, my pale abdomen spattered with scars. I trail my fingertips over the large gash on my lower stomach. _Thanks, Hannibal._ I touch the scabbed over, not-quite-healed scratches all over my sides, and glide my fingers tentatively to the stab wound on my shoulder. I look like a fucking wreck. I look like I fell down a flight of stairs with knives taped to me. I restrain myself from rolling my eyes in the mirror.

I wander the house again, like a pathetic ghost clad in only flannel pajama pants. There’s no TV here, I think bitterly. Some comforting background noise would be nice. It gets old listening to myself. I go to the cabinets in the kitchen, bare feet padding against the ugly linoleum and humming tunelessly to myself. I feel like I’m on a constant-white-noise mission with myself to block out my anxieties about Hannibal leaving the house. My brain wants to bombard me with what-ifs. What if someone recognizes Hannibal? What if they call the police? What if Hannibal starts murdering everyone in the Costco? I snort to myself. As if Hannibal would set foot in a Costco. Okay, what if he murders everyone in the…Whole Foods? I rub my eyes and hunt around aimlessly until I find something satisfying—the bottle of whiskey from before. It’s shoved behind several bottles of wine that look like they cost several hundred dollars per bottle. _Score._

I wouldn’t dare touch Hannibal’s fancy wines, but this—well, Hannibal would rather drink Koolaid. This is undoubtedly mine. I pour myself a glass and set the bottle on the counter. I think there’s a radio in the living room somewhere. Right? This house can’t have _nothing_.

I find it in a closet, nestled amongst an inexplicably large collection of board games (this only reinforces my belief that this _cannot_ be Hannibal’s house, though I would love to see him playing Jenga). It’s blocky and dusty and possibly completely broken, but it is a radio. And there is a CD player in it. It takes a surprising amount of strength and finesse to drag it from the closet and put it on a table in my current state, but my perseverance earns me another glass of whiskey. I fumble with the radio’s plug until I am rewarded with the white noise of an out-of-tune radio station. This thing is from 1994, I swear to God. It has a cassette player built into it. I smile in spite of myself, sipping my drink at an increasingly irresponsible rate.

I return to the closet to dig beneath the Yahtzee boxes for music; at this point I’d take CDs or cassettes. I grope blindly into the shadowy shelves until I grasp at something that feels like a fabric CD case. My cheeks feel flushed from the alcohol, and my mind has eased its foot off of the anxiety pedal (for now). The night is increasingly satisfying. I slump down to the floor in front of the closet, sitting cross-legged like a child to flip through the CDs.  
I am delighted to find a vast collection of 70’s rock. It feels like a stroke of luck in an otherwise very bleak situation, and my (increasingly drunker) mind sets itself to choosing _the best_ CD to play. Fleetwood Mac, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doors. I can’t help wondering which one Hannibal would hate the most. I smile to myself and stumble to my feet to pour myself a third glass. I commit myself to the idea of making sure Hannibal comes home to something he will not like, and confidently put the _Saturday Night Fever_ soundtrack into the CD player. I can’t help cackling to myself as the album starts out with the Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive”. I fall onto the sofa, overcome by a fit of childish giggling. God bless whoever lived here.

As if on cue, Hannibal walks in the front door, shopping bags in hand. The look on his face is possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I dissolve into hysterical cackling and slide onto the floor, clutching my stomach, aching with laughter that has gone completely silent. Barry Gibbs’ high-pitched shrieking of ‘I’m staying aliiiiiiiive!’ Seems to pain Hannibal physically. I am unencumbered by stress or pain for the first time since Jack Crawford came to my home to ask for my help again. 

I want to look at Hannibal, take in every fraction of his dignified face as it is frozen in a disco-induced horror, but my wheezing laughter renders me nearly useless, and by the time I look up at him, wiping tears from my eyes, the song is winding down and he is watching me with eyes that are equal parts revulsion and fondness. He eyes the bottle of whiskey with a small smile. 

“Quite a night, Will?” He asks, shutting the door behind him and easing his coat off his shoulders. 

“I’m having…a great time.” I say confidently. I sip my whiskey from the bottle, the glass now abandoned on the end table. I watch Hannibal’s face, arranged politely into amusement to disguise what I suspect is a lingering disdain for the Bee Gees. His eyes drop from my face to move over my bare chest with an expression I can’t quite read. It makes me feel warm and I find myself wanting to lean into it. The song ends and the next one begins, much softer and, well…

_I know your eyes in the morning sun_ ,  
 _I feel you touch me in the pouring rain_  
 _And the moment that you wander far from me,_  
 _I want to feel you in my arms again_  
 _And you come to me on a summer breeze_  
 _Keep me warm in your love, then softly leave_  
 _And it’s me you need to show_  
 _How deep is your love?_

I stand up, emboldened by alcohol and the first glimpse of real happiness I’ve had in a long time. I walk shakily to Hannibal and he reaches out to steady me instinctively, his strong hands on my forearms. Moving fast as if to outrun my self-doubt, I put my hands on his shoulders and tug him towards me, closing my eyes to quell my nerves. The song is soft, gentle and it compels me in my drunken state. I sway to the music, dragging Hannibal with me. I bet it’s crippling him emotionally that I’m making him dance to a Bee Gees song. I lean my head into his shoulder, wrapping my arms around him and breathing deeply against the comforting smell of his shirt. I feel his hesitant hands on my waist and remember how shirtless I am. My skin burns warm and his hands are cool, his long fingers curling against the hot skin of my hips. His fingertips graze against the waistband of my pants. I’m an awkward dancer, but at least I can blame it on the alcohol. I smile against his shoulder as he presses a hand into the small of my back to straighten my posture. I chuckle to myself, and though I can’t look him in the eye, I do stand straighter. 

He surprises me and takes my right hand in his left to lead me more precisely, and I steal a glance at his face. His eyes are soft, mouth set in a slight smile. He’s watching every one of my clumsy movements with affection, or something that looks like it. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and excitement, but I do not pull away. This is the best I’ve felt in years, I think to myself.


	5. Pioneer To The Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspo "Pioneer to the Falls" by Interpol.

_So much for make believe, I’m not sold_   
_So much of dreams, deceit, I’m not prepared to know_   
_Your heart makes me feel_   
_Your heart makes me bold_   
_For always and ever, I’ll never let go_   
_Always concealed_   
_Safe and inside_   
_Alive_

I wake up in Hannibal’s bed. It’s just me, a terrific hangover, and the ruffled sheets beside me to suggest that I did not spend the night alone. A thrill runs through me, hot and cold and electric up my spine, and I reach over to the nightstand to grab the painkillers and glass of water he must’ve left for me. I would roll my eyes at him—how he is always predicting my needs—if the motion of my eyeballs in their sockets didn’t make me feel like I was receiving a lobotomy. He seems to care for me so much now. It didn’t feel that way when he was cutting my head open. Or stabbing me. Or framing me for murder. Why do I like him so much?

I lie back against the crisp white sheets, curling an arm under his pillow and pulling it to cover my face. Should I feel embarrassed? I sigh into it, replaying the last night. Whiskey. Jenga. CD Players. Bee Gees? Slow dancing? I press his pillow into my face in a halfhearted attempt to smother myself only to find myself deeply breathing in the smell of him (more accurately, the smell of his overpriced conditioner).

Bits and pieces of the night trickle into my mind like memories of a forgotten dream. I recall waking on the sofa in the dead of night, Hannibal beside me. He was reading while I was passed out on the couch like a kid at a frat party. My head was nearly in his lap. I remember him leading me up the stairs, saying something about making sure I wouldn’t die in my sleep of alcohol poisoning. Then he led me up here…

I have to get out of this bed. I rub my eyes, wincing with every fraction of a movement as I force my useless self over the edge of the bed. I’m still wearing my flannel pants and no shirt, and without the buffer of alcohol I become somewhat self-conscious. I make my way through the hallway to get to the room that would be mine (if I ever slept in it) and pull on one of the plain white t-shirts from the dresser. 

I’m hesitant to make my way downstairs to him. Is he going to call me out for drunken ridiculousness? Possibly. Give me smug looks while I refuse to make eye contact? Probably. Generally make me feel flustered and tense and unable to think of anything but his goddamn face? Definitely. I run a hand through my hair and face it anyway, walking down the ugly carpeted stairs to the smell of coffee. Each step makes my head pound and by the time I get to the kitchen I have one hand firmly latched to my forehead as if to hold my brain still. I’m sure I look awful. It’s been a long time since I was this hungover. I shuffle into the kitchen, self-aware and miserable looking, especially in contrast to Hannibal, who has never looked like this a day in his life (I assume). He smiles at me in a way that says _‘I’m quite satisfied with your hangover punishing you for making me tolerate you last night.’_ At least, that’s how I read it. He pushes a cup of black coffee into my hands, letting his fingers graze against mine in the transfer. I’m almost too dead to notice—almost. My heart jolts anyway. I gratefully sip it as I lower myself into the wooden bench beside the table.

I set it down gently before allowing my head to fall on my crossed arms, slumped over the table like a corpse. 

“Good to see that you survived.” Hannibal says. I can’t tell if he’s being smug or honest.

“Take more than whiskey and disco to kill me.” I mumble against my arms before lifting my head to squint in the light and sip my coffee. Hannibal slides into the booth across from me looking like an absolute morning person. He’s tall and confident and comfortable, he sips his own coffee and watches me with contentment. At least one of us feels good.

“There is a new development.” Hannibal says. I find myself not really listening to his words, but to the sound of his voice, soft like velvet and lilting in his accent. It’s not loud enough to hurt my dehydrated brain, just soft and soothing like elevator music. I find myself not listening at all. I’d feel bad about it if my mind had the strength. I remain in my spacey state until Hannibal turns his laptop to face me. I blink hard against the LCD light boring into my eyes. I squint it into focus and feel the blood subsequently drain from my face as I stare at the TattleCrime home page.

**_THE RED DRAGON ESCAPES FROM HOSPITAL_ **   
**_Posted 2 hours ago_ **

I look back at Hannibal, who looks inexplicably pleased. I clench and unclench my fingers, feeling my stomach beginning to knot. I rub my forehead with frustration.

**Sources report that Francis Dolarhyde escaped Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane in the early hours of Tuesday morning. This news comes on the heels of our previous exclusive interview with the Red Dragon himself, who had warned us of his intentions to escape and was not taken seriously by the incompetent staff of the hospital.**

This…this is not what I expected. It isn’t what I wanted. It felt like something far off that only Hannibal believed in—something I could pretend wasn’t ever going to happen. It feels as if I tricked myself into believing none of it was real. Hannibal could make his trips to the store, stock up on ideas and ways to kill the Red Dragon again, but I didn’t have to believe it would really happen. I would just sit by and nod in agreement, idling until we all died of old age. I guess that’s what I was hoping for. I sink my pounding head into my hands.

This is what he was hoping for. There’s no say-so. I don’t get to opt out, I don’t get to tell Hannibal that I want a life where I don’t murder Francis Dolarhyde—I don’t get that because it already passed me up, I already took that leap—and there’s no outcome where I can stop him once he’s made up his mind. That ship sailed before I even reached the harbor. I feel sick to my stomach. But it’s not just this…it’s not just the idea of killing him (again). That isn’t what bothers me, or what frightens me. It’s the idea that maybe we _won’t_ make it out. He survived us once; maybe he will survive us again. Worse yet, maybe only one of us will make it out. This thought chills me to my core.

I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead and try to swallow down the anxiety rising in my throat. The possibility—the very _real_ possibility—that he could take me, or he could take Hannibal, but not the both of us…it’s painful. More than I’d care to admit. As a team, we feel right. Unbeatable. But apart…well, maybe Hannibal would be fine. I probably wouldn’t.

I let my fingers part and fall from my face, hitting the table pathetically. My pulse is racing nervously. I take in Hannibal’s face in the morning sunlight through the kitchen window. He looks so sure of himself. Always…so sure of everything. He doesn’t feel fear, I don’t think, only anger and confidence. I wish I could feel that way. But I feel invariably tethered to him, as if my heart has reached out and extended new veins and arteries that wrap around him like vines. If they were severed, he’d be just fine. I’d bleed out in an instant. 

He looks serene as he sits across from me sipping his coffee, pleased. I feel a tug in my chest. 

“Hannibal.” I say softly. I watch as he meets my eyes receptively, face angling towards me in acknowledgement. His cheekbones catch the sunlight, gold and warm. He’s wearing a red sweater, one I’ve seen before. It’s a soft knit, far removed from his crisp suits or the institutional clothes he’d been made to wear for the past few years. I want to touch it. “Don’t do it.” Is all I can manage. I don’t know why I even bother. I know what he will say before he says it.

“I must.” He pauses. “We should go back to my home on the cliff.” He says. I choke on my coffee, spluttering slightly and nearly dropping it. I didn’t expect _that_. 

“What...wh…where are we now?” I ask, partially because it’s been long enough without knowing, and partially because I don’t want to talk about the concept of returning to that place, knowing goddamn well that it’s exactly where Francis Dolarhyde is going to end up.

“Clayton Lake, Maine.” He says coolly. He continues to sip his coffee as if we were discussing the crossword. 

_Maine? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re the FBI’s most wanted. Shouldn’t we be in Canada or something?_

“You want to return to that house because you know he’ll be there.” I say softly.

“Yes.” He says. I nod, frustrated, gnawing the inside of my cheek. Suddenly I feel furious with him. I feel spiteful. How many years can he keep dragging me from near-death to near-death? How many times will I be stabbed, shot, imprisoned on his behalf? How many cliffs do I have to jump off of? I wonder placidly if there’s anything he really cares about.

“Then I should go first, by myself. If it’s me he says he wants.” I say distantly. I feel myself glazing over indifferently. If Hannibal wants to play this game, then let me be a pawn. 

I see a twitch in his face and the desire to push him overcomes my better judgment, spurring me on. “Let me go first. I’m not wanted by the police. I’m less recognizable. I’ll go to your house and he will find me there and do whatever he wants to do to me.” I say idly. I find myself taking pleasure in the way his brow creases slightly, the way his eyes narrow only a fraction. “He’ll beat me up, or stab me again. He’ll bite me, probably. I’m sure he’d relish in the satisfaction of finally tasting me.” I say, flicking my eyes over to Hannibal’s face again. I lean across the table to meet his eyes with a petty glare. “I will let him.” I say in a near whisper.

Hannibal fixes me with a chilling stare, standing up abruptly from his place at the table. He walks around to my side and grabs me by the collar of my shirt, lifting me from my seat with one arm to pull me to my feet. My body shies away automatically, backing into the wall (oh, the instinct of self-preservation). Hannibal leans into me, looking down to meet my eyes in a way that makes me twitch. He leans his face close to mine, loosening his grip on my shirt to graze his thumb against my throat.

“Do not be so foolish, Will.” He says softly. “I will turn him inside out before he lays a finger on you.” He pauses, dark eyes fixing on mine. I feel like I can’t escape them. Gently, he brushes my hair from my eyes with his other hand. “If anyone is going to kill you, it will not be Francis Dolarhyde.” His tone suggests that it’s going to be him. Is he being protective? I can feel his intentions—possessive, protective, as if I am his and I am _cherished._ I feel my brow furrow in confusion and I raise a hesitant hand up to his face. I gently brush my thumb over his sharp cheekbone, and his eyes soften almost imperceptibly. My hand drifts lower to curl slightly around the back of his neck.

I pull him down to me and kiss him. I take him by surprise, I think, though it’s hard to tell as he recovers in the same instant. The moment our lips touch I feel something blossom in my mind like a sense of relief; I realize belatedly that we were made to do this. He leans into me, pushing me almost uncomfortably against the wall. One of his hands threads fingers through my hair, the other snakes around my waist to hold me tightly. I find my own hands in his hair, gripping too tightly, pulling too hard (but he doesn’t seem to mind). I kiss him forcefully, hastily—as if I am afraid the moment will end and be lost forever to the past, like I thought the teacup was to time and gravity. The taste of him on my lips feels like something I didn’t know I needed. I find myself favoring him over breathing and he has to pull away first to prevent my suffocation. I am breathless, flushed, disheveled. I feel incredible. My heart pounds almost audibly in my chest, and I’m pleased to see he looks shaken as well. He is so beautiful—he feels so beautiful—as he wraps his hands around me possessively, leaning in close to me to connect our lips again. 

One thought crawls over my racing mind and lingers there amidst the hormones and passion. _Why haven’t we been doing this all along?_


	6. Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my longest chapter yet! And it's literally all sex! Go figure. Sorry it took so long, I was occupied with college work for the last week or so. It's over now, so, on with the porn. Song inspo is "Angel" by Depeche Mode!

_The angel of love was upon me,_   
_And Lord, I felt so small,_   
_The legs beneath me weakened,_   
_I began to crawl,_   
_Confused and contented,_   
_I slithered around,_   
_With feelings beyond me,_   
_I was lost—I was found_

I think to myself that I did not expect I’d be the one to kiss him first. I didn’t think at all, really. I just looked into his eyes, intense and terrifying, and I realized with horrified clarity that our relationship was too much—too encompassing—to be contained within the parameters of something as normal as a friendship. I was so stupid not to come to that conclusion _years_ ago. It was never platonic—every glance, every brush of fingers, every exchange of blood or tears or quiet words—they meant so much more than that. 

_The light from friendship will not reach us in a million years._ That was because we’d shot past it the instant we met, and flown into something much more complex, like a comet lurching into a black hole.

I stay nearly pinned to the wall, my heart racing as though it wants to break through my ribs and out into the open. Hannibal has his hands on either side of my head, palms flat against the wall. Even his breathing is slightly labored—nothing quite as ostentatious as my own, my chest rising and falling rapidly—but it’s noticeable for him. His eyes are dark, fixed on my face, his body angled against mine in a way that should frighten me (but doesn’t, not in this moment). His hair falls across his eyes slightly, the collar buttons on his sweater pulled open in the movement. I feel like I could stare at him forever, hungrily, absorbing every fraction of him with my eyes. My hands hover at my sides, useless in the moment as I try to speak to him through a look.

_I understand now. This is how it should have been all along._

The thoughts of Freddie Lounds’ article, the possibility of the Red Dragon coming back to kill us, the idea of one or both of us dying or being locked up…these things are far from my mind now. In this moment I am consumed by one thing: him. Slowly, I reach my hands up to cradle his face between them, skimming my thumbs over his lips, up the sharp line of his cheekbones and brushing my fingertips over the strong line of his jaw as if I am a blind man trying to understand the face in front of me. His eyelids flicker closed for a fraction of a second in response to my touch and I feel the warmth in my heart burn so deeply that it is almost painful. I raise one hand again to sift my fingers through his hair, thinking to myself that it’s softer than I expect it to be, fine like silk and shining gold-gray in the light. His face looks pensive, hungry, almost confused as he watches me touch him. With a faint curiosity, I think of how many times he has touched me like this. It’s the first time I have returned the favor.

He is dangerous, cold, manipulative…he’s hurt me so many times. He’s killed people I loved. He’s tried to kill me. He’s hunted me, haunted me, and ruined my life too many times to count. He’s self-absorbed, pretentious, and smug and if I chose a life with him, the chase would never be over. He would turn me into the very thing I dedicated so much time to stopping. He would shape me into a version of myself that is dangerous and callous and volatile. He will never, ever negate who he is for what is right or for what I want him to be.

But without him, I will never feel like this again.

Hannibal leans slowly into me, giving me all the chances in the world to pull away, to run away, to abandon my decisions for the safety of a platonic relationship. I do not move but to tilt my head towards him, to let our lips meet again. He presses me into the wall more firmly, leaning his body against mine. Our hips seem to fit together perfectly (but it doesn’t surprise me. What part of us wasn’t made to be together?). I can feel all of him against me, strong and muscled, intense and intimidating as he runs his hands from my shoulders to my lower back to hold me by the waist (just like he did on the cliff). He breaks our lips apart to press his to my ear.

“Do you want this, Will?” He asks. His voice is low, rough, and the sound sends a strong chill through me. My body is a traitor, already desperate for whatever he is willing to give me—I have goosebumps along my arms and all my blood is already beneath the belt. 

“Yes.” I say. I could say so much more ( _Of course. I’ve wanted this every moment since I’ve known you. I’ve dreamed about this every night since we’ve been together. I’ve waited for years._ ) but it doesn’t feel necessary. He already knows. 

Hannibal presses his lips to my neck beneath my ear and I feel lightheaded. God, I hope this lasts forever. I feel him kiss lightly against my pulse before flicking his tongue against my skin. What little blood in my body that isn’t fueling my erection is almost definitely in my face, radiating redness through my cheeks. Suddenly, I feel Hannibal bite my neck— _hard._ I yelp involuntarily, squirming away from him out of reflex. He puts a gentle hand to the side of my face to calm me, trailing fingertips against my jaw as he sucks a dark circle into the skin of my neck inside the bite mark. I can feel the throbbing of broken skin beneath his lips and moan slightly (half pain, half pleasure— _I think_ ). When he pulls away, my blood is on his lips, striking and violent and utterly beautiful. I wonder briefly what everyone would think if they saw me now.

I grasp him tightly, one hand in his hair, one on the collar of his sweater, and jerk him closer to me so that I can return the favor. I don’t know where the courage comes from but it feels like I have to grab it in the moment or I’ll lose it forever. I kiss his neck in return, grazing my teeth against the quiet flicker of his pulse, sucking marks into his skin like he did mine. I hear—I think—a soft groan of enjoyment, and the sound seems to go straight to my groin, as if it’s the most arousing thing I have ever heard in my entire life (it is).

“You are remarkable, Will Graham.” He says proudly, moving his hands down my shoulders to rest on my lower back. “I did not expect you to warm to this so quickly.” He moves his hips against mine only fractionally and I have to close my eyes. _Traitorous body._ “You reserve the right to back out at any moment if this proves to be too much for you.” He says politely. How ethical. Hannibal Lecter, cannibal and serial murderer, cares about continuous consent. I nod anyway, shelving my snide inner commentary in favor of something much more important.

“Where do we…uh…” I trail off as my nervousness finally catches up to me, looking helplessly at Hannibal. 

“My bedroom, I imagine. Or the floor, if you simply cannot wait.” He flashes me a self-assured, snakelike smile and I am torn between rolling my eyes and dropping to my knees. God. Hannibal extends a hand in a vague, grandiose gesture towards the stairs and tilts his head at me expectantly. I push forward, making myself head towards the room before I can panic my way out of it. Hannibal follows behind me, suave and smooth and imposing, and I can feel his eyes crawling over me in a way that would be creepy if it were anyone else. We reach his bedroom and I sit awkwardly on the mattress like someone who has never had sex in his life and has no idea what to do next (not that it’s true—but it feels like it might as well be). 

Hannibal seems to have a sense of exactly where I am with this (i.e. incredibly aroused, but extremely out of my depth) and responds with a manner that is more compassionate than I previously expected from him. He shuts the door quietly and approaches me with a softened expression. Gently, he tilts my head back to kiss my face. His lips brush my forehead, eyelids, cheekbones and jawline before pressing firmly against my own mouth. He slides his hand back through my hair, pulling away and tilting his head slightly to watch me process all the feeling. I let my eyes flutter shut, my breathing hitched. I drag up all the courage I have to pull my t-shirt over my head and throw it aside, hands trembling nervously. Hannibal smiles at this and sits beside me on the bed, pressing a hand against my heart to encourage me to lie back against his mountain of pillows. He lays beside me, propped up on an elbow, dragging the fingertips of his other hand over my chest and down, down to my stomach and—I gasp slightly, involuntarily as his fingernails graze the sensitive skin of my lower abdomen.

“I have thought about you like this many times, Will.” He says confidently. “I imagined this moment, and many like it, infinitely since we first met.” His eyes are glowing with satisfaction and pride, his fingers tracing feather-light circles against my sensitive skin. “You are so much more than I ever could have predicted.” His eyes bore into mine with severity that makes me want to look away. “Tell me,” he begins, “did you ever think of me in the same way?” I bite my lip. What a narcissistic question. I could lie just to shake him, but something tells me he wouldn’t believe me. I shut my eyes. 

“Every night.” I say, barely a whisper. “In my dreams, and when I was awake. When I was with other people, even.” It’s true. I don’t look at him because I know he must be unbearably smug. I feel the weight on the bed shift and his knees on either side of my hips, so close that my lips part involuntarily to give a small gasp. I open my eyes in time to see him pull off the red sweater, tossing it aside and cocking his head slightly at me. My eyes flicker over him, his body, his face, and the closeness of him straddling me like this. I feel like I could faint. I want to stare at him forever; I want to touch him, to taste him. He places his palms on both sides of my head, like in the kitchen, and leans down just an inch or so from my face. There’s still a smudge of red on his lips from the bite on my neck, and some absurd sexual instinct compels me to prop myself up so slightly with my elbows and flick my tongue against his lower lip to taste the copper of my own blood. His eyes dilate and in that instant he catches my lips with his, kissing me almost viciously, tongue licking into my mouth, teeth catching on my lip, one hand holding himself up and one at the back of my head pulling me against him. 

I arch my back on instinct, curling up into his body, my hips grinding into his where I can feel he’s as hard as I am. I moan into his mouth, hands grasping desperately at either side of his face, feeling lightheaded and overheated and better than I have ever felt in my entire existence. He leans down to drag his teeth across my chest, lower and lower until I have my fists clenching the bars of the bed frame and am nearly frozen in anticipation. He slides a hand down my stomach and hip as if to warn me of his intentions before he gently pulls at the waistband of my pajama pants and boxers, tugging them both off and onto the floor. I feel my face flush self-consciously as he pulls away, sitting upright like the tease he is.

“Have you done this before?” He asks, voice soft. “With a man?” I shake my head mutely. Hannibal smiles, a smug glint in his eye. I know he doesn’t need the encouragement, but I’m tempted to spur him on just because the possessiveness is such a turn-on.

“Only you.” I say, relishing the hungry burning in his eyes at my words. He leans over me to the bedside drawer and I swallow tensely. What am I doing? Honestly, what am I doing? I imagine, briefly, what Jack would say if he could see this. Somehow I feel like he wouldn’t be all that shocked. Repulsed, maybe. But probably not shocked. 

Hannibal leans back over me holding a bottle of lube and I take a moment to blush ferociously to myself. I really don’t know anything about this—about how to do this. It’s not something I’d ever thought about before him, and even when I did it was always in the abstract—never considering anything as logical as lubrication. Hannibal seems to be as sure of this as he is about everything else in his life, and I feel a twinge of jealousy. It’s stupid, but I can’t quite help it. 

He drizzles the lube over his fingertips and gently slides a slick finger down my lower stomach, over the scar that he gave me, to lightly stroke my (nearly painful) erection. I gasp silently, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myself from making a noise. Hannibal’s hand passes lower, and I feel the flush in my cheeks radiate like it’s going to melt the skin off my skull. My mind races. Is he—? I’ve never even—I gasp audibly as I feel him push a finger into me, prodding, gently testing me out. It feels… _good._ God help me.

“Hannibal—I—” I choke out, my hands clenching the bed frame with white knuckles.

“Mmm?” He tilts his head up, lifting his eyes from what he’s doing to meet mine with an expression that makes me feel like I could come right now. I swallow again.

“It feels good.” I whisper breathlessly. Of course that’s obvious—Hannibal wouldn’t be doing it if he wasn’t sure of himself (or sure of me)—but I say it anyway, more for myself, because I guess I never thought deeply enough about the idea of the Chesapeake Ripper with his finger up my ass being a good thing. I arch into him, angling my hips slightly against his hand and he smiles at me.

Hannibal traces his free hand along my stomach, brushing his fingertips over my various scars, along the inside of my thigh where he stitched me up. His other hand has built a rhythm, stretching the muscles inside me and pushing further into me fraction-by-fraction, slick from the lube and making me cry out softly with each movement. 

“What did you imagine, in your dreams?” Hannibal asks, nearly purring as he works a second finger into me, making me yelp and drop my hands to grasp at the sheets. God, he really expects me to just talk to him while this is going on? I try desperately to hold on to a coherent thought.

“I—pictured— _this_.” I whimper slightly, knowing it won’t be a good enough answer. “I pictured— _ah_ —you fucking me.” It sounds vulgar and stupid, like too obvious an answer, but it’s the truth. “On your desk, at your old house.” I gasp at each push, and I can feel him moving his fingers inside of me to prod at places I had never known even existed. I see stars flickering in my vision. “In my bed, at my old house.” I close my eyes and bite my lip. “In Italy. In the church. In Jack Crawford’s office.” 

“Mmm.” He says, eyes glittering mischievously. He keeps a perfect pace with the fingers that are inside of me, stroking and stretching and it’s so unfamiliar—but it’s so _good_. I can’t help the small moans that keep coming out of me, and he seems to relish them. Something about the idea of Hannibal being turned on (by _me_ ) is incredible. I want to turn the tables desperately, for him to be taken aback.

“What did _you_ imagine, Hannibal?” I ask him in a low voice between gasps. There’s a fractional falter in the motion of his hand and I pride myself deeply on having surprised him. When I flicker my eyes open to look at him he is smiling like a predator, enchanting and alarming. 

“I imagined you vulnerable, laid out for me in whatever way I desired.” His voice rolls like velvet, soft and deep. “Beautiful and powerful as you often are. Sometimes I saw you pleasuring yourself for me, sometimes you begged me to do it for you.” His face is fixed in heavy eyelids and an entitled smirk, his free hand teasing fingertips over my ribs and making me shiver. “That was my favorite thought. That you would beg me.” He meets my eyes thoughtfully. “I must confess I have made it a resolution to hear you do just that.” Hannibal pushes his fingers as deep into me as they will go and my body responds. My back arches, brow furrows and I slide my hips closer towards him with a moan, high-pitched and pleased.

“We’ll see.” I whisper breathlessly. Hannibal smiles at me before removing his hand suddenly. I find myself startlingly distressed by this—it was getting so good, it felt so right. In the absence of his touch I feel nervous. I prop myself up on my elbows to see what he’s doing just as he leans down to bite me on my hip. The flash of white pain as he breaks the soft skin there is chased away by pleasure as he presses his lips to the bite just like he did with the one on my neck, tracing his tongue against the abrasions to taste my blood. It should alarm me, shouldn’t it? But it doesn’t. It just feels like he’s marking me, possessing me, claiming my body for his own. Honestly, no part of that is even new to our relationship, so I just lean into it, cherishing the closeness. 

Hannibal lifts his head from my waist, blood on his lips and a smile on his face to crawl up over me. His hands snake around my wrists, pinning my hands above my head. His face is so close to mine, hovering just out of my reach. I clench my jaw defiantly, realizing that he really _does_ want me to beg him. I want to be resolute, ensured that I won’t do it, but truthfully…well. It’s tempting. 

He rolls gracefully away from me, off of the bed to take off his pants. I feel myself blushing, as if seeing Hannibal naked is more private or embarrassing than him putting his fingers inside of me, teaching me how to have sex with a man. My instinct is to politely avert my eyes, and I have to remind myself that the nature of our relationship has changed. Not only am I allowed to look at him, but also _he wants me to._ So I watch him with captivated eyes as he makes a long, drawn-out show of taking off the single item of clothing that’s all he’s wearing. 

I feel my eyes widen involuntarily as if to take everything in. Much to my expectation, he’s bigger than me (of course he is) and I feel somewhat nervous, like it might be physically dangerous to let him fuck me. Though, at this point, it seems like the element of danger is a given. I trace my eyes over his body, the defined muscles of his chest, the firm lines trailing downward from his hipbones. Everything about him is strong and lithe and beautiful and intimidating.

He turns to me, head cocked slightly to the side, amused and intense as he watches me watch him. All of his movements are smooth, and he’s back at my side in a moment, stroking a hand over me passively. He seems to favor my chest and stomach, caressing his fingertips over my abdomen and my hips. With sudden roughness, he slides a hand underneath my lower back, moving down to grip my ass and lift me up, pushing me higher on the bed so that he can situate himself kneeling between my legs. Startled, my cheeks flush for the eight-hundredth time and I grasp again at the bars of the bed frame.  
“You’re quite certain you want this, Will?” He asks, grazing his fingertips over my inner thigh. My brows crease and my eyes shut, hyper-stimulated by all of his faint, feather touches. I nod. He slides a hand to my hard-on, gently thumbing the head and keeping his eyes fixed on my face to take in my expression as he does it with satisfaction.

It feels like we’ve been building up to this for years—not in the literal sense, because technically we have—but in the sense that we could’ve been in this bed together for hours, months, eternity, just getting ready for each other all our lives. I feel like I could wait another lifetime with just this, just teasing and touching. Simultaneously, I feel like I will die if we don’t do this right now.

He slides a finger into me once more, gentle and persistent, making sure I’m ready. I am—as much as I will ever be, it feels like.

He leans himself closer between my legs and I feel exhilarated. It’s so new, daunting even. I never would have considered this or known it was even an option if not for Hannibal. I never would’ve known I could crave it. Subconsciously, I spread my legs further apart for him and turn my hips towards him. I have a white-knuckled grip on the bars of the bed frame and I’m leaned back just slightly, resting on the pillows he set up for me. I meet his eyes, burning intensely as I feel him thrust into me. The feeling is so full—so hard and warm and thick—and behind the static feeling of pain there is a pleasure that takes me by surprise. It’s—oh my god—it’s so much. It’s him.

Hannibal leans over me, holding himself up with one hand. A strand of hair falls across his eyes, pale gold in the sunlight. He gives me a moment to acclimate to the feeling, adjust to the burning pain/pleasure combination of him inside me. He watches every infinitesimal movement of my face, my breathing, and my blinking. I can see him catalogue the movements of my eyes and hands. I consciously make myself release my grip on the bed frame to slide my hands up to touch him. It feels like something I need to be doing, even if just to assure that I’m not dreaming. I graze my thumb over his cheekbone curiously, watching as he shuts his eyes to the feeling. It’s more emotion than I’ve seen on his face in a long time—or at least more…sensation. 

He begins to rock his hips slowly back and forth into me, cautious of my limits and aware of my comfort (certainly more so than he ever was before). One of his hands slides down my chest to grip me by the waist, thumb stroking over my hipbone as he pulls my body closer to him in even thrusts. A quiet, constant moan escapes me and I find myself gripping his shoulder, my nails digging into his skin. The pain is dissipating as I adjust to the stretching of him inside me, fading away and being replaced by curious pleasure.

As the pace builds, his hips smoothly thrusting into me, he tucks a hand behind my neck to pull me closer to him in a sudden movement, making me sit more upright and adjusting the angle at which we connect. His lips brush my ear, travel softly down my neck to bite gently at my throat. It makes my skin prickle, seemingly flooding my brain with desire that I don’t quite comprehend. Comprehension feels unnecessary at this point, anyway. Nothing appeals to me more than giving in to every aspect of this—submitting to the circumstance, to him. I wouldn’t have thought I’d love it so much, but letting him do whatever his will dictates has recently proven to be incredibly rewarding.

Overcome by my revelations, I fist both of my hands into his hair, jerking his face down to mine to kiss him roughly. He responds with equivalent passion, his teeth catching on my lips, tongue sliding into my mouth and fingertips digging into the soft skin of my waist. He pulls my hips higher, angles himself to fuck me deeper. I find myself whispering to him almost incoherently, murmuring his name, moaning in his ear. Every sound I make spurs him on, thrusting deeper and harder as if he could fuck me through the mattress. It feels amazing—incredible—so, so much better than anything I’ve ever felt before.

“God, this—you feel so good.” I exclaim breathlessly, clutching at his hair and panting against his throat. With suddenness and an ease that’s almost disturbing, Hannibal slides both hands under my back, lifting me and rolling so he’s lying flat and I’m on top of him. I cry out, almost embarrassingly high-pitched, and grab onto his shoulders to steady myself. His hands find my hips again, helping me find rhythm against the deep, stabbing pleasure of riding him like this. 

“As do you, Will.” He says, voice strained and low. He drags the fingernails of one hand down my hip and low on my pelvic bone to curl a hand around the painful hardness of my erection. The sensation is so intense that I nearly lose rhythm, gasping silently. I spread my legs further, leading him as deep as he can go, possessed by the need to make him lose himself, even if just for a moment. Hannibal’s hand is stroking me tightly, coaxing my body towards climax. I decide to make a show of my impending orgasm, throwing my head back and rolling my hips fluidly with each thrust. He pushes into me with a deep, low groan, and I am clenched around him as tightly as is probably humanly possible as he finishes inside of me. The pressure in my body tightens every nerve in me, and when I come, finally, with his fist tightened around me, I collapse forward and have to brace myself against his shoulder. 

Hannibal strokes my sweat-slicked hair back from my forehead to press a kiss to my skin as I pant into his neck.

“How’d I do?” I ask in a quivering whisper.

“It was as I always imagined.” He says.


	7. The Moth and The Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so short it's pathetic. I am very sorry for that. But the next one will be longer + action packed and gruesome. So!!! Yay. Sorry guys!!

_The moth don’t care when he sees the flame,_  
_He might get burned, but he’s in the game_  
_And once he’s in, he can’t go back,_  
_He’ll beat his wings ‘til he burns them black…_

_The moth don’t care if the flame is real,_  
_‘Cause flame and moth got a sweetheart deal_  
_And nothing fuels a good flirtation_  
_Like need and anger and desperation…_

_No, the moth don’t care if the flame is real._

I lay in bed for an hour afterwards warring internally with myself. Hannibal stays with me, simply lying there with his eyes closed as if he is the most relaxed man in the world (in his mind palace, I guess he is). My subconscious is vicious and relentless, pestering me with negative thoughts when by all accounts I _should_ be patting myself on the back and having a great goddamn day. But the thoughts haunt me like small, unnecessary ghosts.

_He only slept with you so you’d forget how mad you were at him._

_He only slept with you to make you lose yourself._

_He only slept with you because he was bored._

I can feel the thoughts progressively getting dumber and dumber, and myself with them. The morning light is fading into midday, and soon the sun will rise too high to stream light onto us through the open window. I prop myself up on my elbow and turn to face Hannibal, and seeing him beside me looking so restful makes my brain quiet for a moment.

_Maybe he did it because it’s what he wanted to do._

I stare at him, prone and peaceful and doused in pink-gold sunlight. We’d lazily pull on our pants afterwards, but nothing else, and the novelty of his shirtlessness is not lost on me. I reach out a hesitant hand to brush my fingertips over the planes of his chest. How many times did I think about this when we were just friends? Or when he was just my psychiatrist? Or, shit, even when he was the one who put me in jail—or vice versa. I guess there wasn’t ever a time when I didn’t think about this. I have questions for him—so many questions, really—and I wonder if there’s a way to ask them all that won’t come off like an interrogation.

“Hannibal?” 

“Mmm?” His eyes are still closed, fingers laced on his stomach.

“When did you know that you wanted this?” I ask, indirect and skirting around my real thought ( _are you sure you wanted this?_ ) to ask in a way that I know Hannibal would prefer. I look at him nervously and his eyes are still closed, but a small smile curves the edges of his lips.

“Interesting question.” He murmurs. “Probably when I came to see you in your hotel room shortly after we met.”

I think back to that morning. Me, with the blackout curtains drawn, looking like death after a night of grasping for sleep and getting nothing but nightmares and a cold sweat. Hannibal, in his finely pressed suit, knocking on my door the day after I’d met him and bringing me breakfast, forward as ever. He pressed through the doorframe despite all resistance, determined to spend time with me for some godforsaken reason. I was confused and grumpy and exhausted. He was lithe and charming and persistent. 

I remember pushing him away, erecting that invisible wall between us as I was prone to do; I wanted him to go away, but I really, really wanted him to come closer. Every bit of me was reclusive and anxious and self-destructive—not in the loud, ostentatious, cry-for-help kind of way that some people are, but in the quiet “oh no, it’s nothing, I’m fine, just tired” kind of way that inevitably leads somewhere bad. I guess Hannibal took one look at me in Jack’s office as I avoided his eyes and decided that I was his next project.

I was, and possibly still am, by all accounts a reclusive, awkward, antisocial asshole. I don’t know what drew him to me. I look at him lying beside me, handsome and interesting and dangerous and intelligent, and have to take a moment to wonder what the fuck I’m doing again. 

I mean, honestly, is his company worth my life? My freedom? My sanity? Is the passion I feel for him a fair trade for the lives that we’ll take together (I can’t imagine a future where that doesn’t happen, though it seems far off)? Is the feeling of pure acceptance that Hannibal gives me worth losing the acceptance of, conceivably, every sane human being alive?

I look over at him, his eyelids closed, sunlight illuminating him in golden light and purple-tinted shadows. In this moment, it feels like it absolutely is. I sigh softly and lean over him, nerves prickling at me again even though I know this is my right now—we’ve breached that wall. I kiss him lightly, trying to remind myself of why I’m so willing to do this. Hannibal smiles against the press of my lips as if he’s been waiting for me to do this, weaving his fingers in the curls of my hair, tracing a hand down my ribcage affectionately. My mind quiets again at his touch and I can’t help but feel a strange peace crawl over me.

 

We sit across from each other at the nook for dinner, something miraculously good that Hannibal created from the pathetic remnants of our last grocery trip (weeks ago) like some sort of cooking show challenge. We drink wine; it’s something fancy and pretentious that I feel like Hannibal couldn’t have possibly gotten from the local grocery store. I try my hardest to enjoy the domesticity of it, rather than laboring over the anxiety that’s crawling through me. I don’t want to think about when Hannibal’s going to decide to leave, with or without me, to confront a man who wants to kill us both. I want this, this ridiculous façade of normalcy, drinking wine and having sex and pretending that there was even a fraction of a second in our relationship that was remotely normal (as opposed to attempted homicide, manipulation, incarceration and encephalitis). 

I offer to wash dishes after we eat, and Hannibal graciously accepts before disappearing to the back of the house. I hum to myself while I do it, projecting an image of cheerfulness and nodding along to the Queen CD that Hannibal begrudgingly allowed me to play on the radio from the other room (even he can’t say no to Freddie Mercury).

As I’m drying my hands on a hideous floral-printed dishtowel, Hannibal reenters the kitchen holding a small, white cardboard box and presents it to me with a flourish. 

“I got this for you on my last trip out of the house. I felt it would be useful.” He says politely. I wonder briefly to myself if it’s some sort of sex toy or murder weapon, and it occurs to me that the last time I saw Hannibal Lecter give someone a gift, it was a disembodied arm. I grimace slightly at the thought and pry the top off of the box, hoping only for no human digits.

I am pleased and surprised to find that it’s a cell phone. Slim, black, metallic and utilitarian. I hadn’t given much thought to it, but the phone I owned before is long gone (in the rolling ocean, I imagine). It’s a very practical gift. I take it out from where it’s nestled in the factory Styrofoam and chuckle to myself.

“Very fancy for a fugitive burner phone.” I tell him with a slight smile. He nods indulgently, pleased with my reaction.

“I got one for myself as well.” He says, pulling an identical cell out of his pocket to show me. “The idea of not being in contact with you was…unpleasant.” He admits with a shrug, unencumbered by his honesty as always.

“Thank you, Hannibal. I appreciate this. I probably wouldn’t have thought about it until…well. Until ten minutes after I urgently needed it, I’m sure.” I shake my head at myself slightly and turn it on, pleased to find that Hannibal has already gone through the trouble of setting it up. I flick through the phone’s preinstalled apps, looking through the address book to see only one contact, simply labeled ‘H’.

I smile faintly to myself and thank Hannibal again. The gift is nice, and practical, but it brings a twinge of pain to my stomach as it dawns on me that he’s anticipating separation. I slide it into my back pocket and lean back against the counter, taking off my glasses and wiping them meaninglessly on the fabric of my shirt, for no reason other than that my hands cannot fall still.  
“Is there any way I can convince you that this is not the best idea?” I ask, voice low and tired. Hannibal pockets his own phone and steps closer to stand right in front of me, towering over me as I slouch against the countertop. His posture isn’t threatening, but it is distracting. My eyes linger on his neck.

“Likely not. I can be quite single-minded.” He says. I pinch the bridge of my nose, unable to ignore his proximity when my elbow bumps his chest. He doesn’t move.

“Are you going to make me be a part of it no matter what?” I ask, trying to hide the slight shake in my voice. 

“I would like for you to be a part of it of your own volition, Will. Acquiescence is far sweeter when it is enthusiastic.” He sounds mildly annoyed.

“And if I say no,” I pause to swallow. “You’ll go anyway?” I feel the dread in my stomach grow heavier, as if it wants to pull me onto the linoleum. Hannibal tilts his head in consideration, eyes searching my face. One of his hands snakes around my waist, fingertips slipping beneath my shirt to graze the skin at my hipbone.

“I must.” He says simply. “Though I would far prefer you with me. I long for it, even.” He says. His eyes burn into me.

“Did it occur to you that this could be a trap?” I ask, bitterness seeping into my voice.

“Yes, that's entirely reasonable.” He affirms casually, as if this was the agreed-upon conclusion. I blanch at that.

“What?” I ask, unable to think of anything better. “You…Hannibal, why the fuck would you want to go, then?” The pitch and volume of my voice both rise frantically, as if my hysteria cannot be contained within a normal speaking tone.

“Because I would like to know whose trap it is, exactly. And in the event that the improbable is possible, I believe Francis Dolarhyde is unfit to walk the Earth. I would quite like to kill him. Particularly if the interview we read was genuine. He's more than incurred our shared wrath, I believe.” He shrugs, his other hand curling around my waist too, fingers tracing small, idle spirals into my skin.

“If it's not Dolarhyde, Hannibal, it's going to be Jack, Kade Prurnell, the whole FBI, probably!” I try to contain myself but I’m only a few octaves from girlish shrieking. Hannibal slides a hand up the back of my shirt to press his palm to my back soothingly. 

“Then we will kill the whole FBI.” He whispers sweetly into my ear as he tilts my body into him. I shudder slightly. “Or have you forgotten what we are?” He asks. I swallow, fists knotting into his shirt.

“I haven’t forgotten.” I say, alight with intensity. I let my gaze bore into his, and I feel overcome by the need to be good enough for him. To be his equal. He smiles at me and withdraws one hand from my shirt to smooth my hair back against my forehead.  
“Then let us hunt together again.” He says.


End file.
